The Good Samaritan
by LittleMissChatterbox2009
Summary: Someone in Hell's Kitchen is able to help Daredevil, without caring for his identity


**Hey, little Daredevil Oneshot here, angst to come.**

 **Some weird POV changes, but hopefully it makes sense. Please enjoy! :)**

* * *

'Foggy? You home? Urgh, I know you hate me. But, I'm kinda worried right now. Fog? I think, I think I was shot...'

Glancing down at his leg, head tilted, the red suited figure grimaced in pain.

'Well, I'm pretty sure I was shot. And the bullet is still in me. I don't think I can get home right now, or get it out by myself.'

Daredevil stumbled, leaning on the fire escape, head pressed against Foggy's curtained window.

'Fog? Please. Claire's gone. I don't know what to do. I can't go to the hospital. Fog? Please. I'm sorry.'

In his apartment, Foggy lay on his bed, concentrating on keeping calm, keeping his breathing shallow. In his head, he was chanting, please go away, he couldn't deal with this, not tonight. He thought that Matt would leave him alone, was leaving him alone. For a few months now he had left him, he had not heard from him, Matt had made no attempt to contact him. Foggy did have to admit to himself that he had been watching out for Matt, and Daredevil.

'Fog?'

Knowing that he wouldn't get an answer, Foggy didn't want to know him anymore, he began to stumble home, clattering up the fire escape, dragging his left leg behind him. Once on the rooftop, he listened back to Foggy's apartment, hearing his breathing steady as though in sleep, but his heartbeat was racing. He knew that Foggy would hate him if he kept on coming back, he had avoided him until tonight, kept an ear out to check he was safe, but kept his distance.

'Goodbye Fog. Sorry I woke you up, I understand. Sorry.'

Perched on the edge of the rooftop, he judged the distance to the fire escape of the next building. Listening to the bullet shifting in his leg he prepared to jump, breathing through the pain, ignoring it, he could deal with that later. For now, he had the few blocks to get home, then he could sort that out. A few more jumps, run across a few more rooftops, work out what he was supposed to do with his leg, then sleep.

Come on.

Just jump.

Just leave him.

He doesn't want you. He won't help you.

In a split second he made his decision, leaping to the fire escape, colliding with a clatter, his leg hanging uselessly below him. Breathing deeply, he started to pull himself up the fire escape, trying not to use his injured limb. Tired after a full night of day and night of work, he headed to the rooftop, not noticing the ladder he was on wasn't secured properly. When it started to fall, he panicked, letting go and trying to clutch onto the wall, a window, anything to stop his rather rapid descent to the ground. His gloved hands scrabbled against the brick of the walls, and he began to hope that there was no one below him, and hopefully a dumpster, as much as he hates the stench of them, it would be better than landing on concrete, and breaking something. Currently he couldn't concentrate, couldn't work out what was around him, all he knew is that the ground continued to get increasingly close, wind was rushing past his ears, muffling his hearing, removing all smells. He hit the ground, head crashing into the ground, then nothing.

* * *

BREAKING NEWS

'Recent reports suggest that Daredevil, our resident vigilante, was injured last night. A local resident, who wishes to remain anonymous, says she saw him staggering across rooftops, and then fall off a fire escape near her apartment. She did not see him return to the rooftops, but he may have walked home through the streets.'

'We hope that he has managed to get medical treatment, if anyone has any news, please message the website, share your stories about the Man in Black.'

* * *

'So you have your own website. Daredevil tracker. People watching out for you, posting when they see you, when you save them, where you've been. And all these people are worried about you. I know you think you're doing good here Matt, but you have to please remember about us. I don't understand you sometimes Matty.'

Foggy glanced over at the unconscious figure on his coach, and the mask he had dropped on the floor. Bloody handprints were on the floor and coach, and he knew he must have blood on his face.

'You and your stupid horns Matt. Why the horns? My best friend is a catholic lawyer who runs around at night dressed as the devil. What even is my life?'

He pushed the first aid box, or crate, back into the cupboard. Although he didn't want anything to do with Matt, after his reveal he started going to first aid classes, stocking up. He was his best friend, although he didn't completely understand why he was doing, he was gonna help him. But things got worse, Matt started going out more, prioritising his night job over his day one, with no thoughts to those around him. Foggy would never get rid of his first aid kit, although he hated Matt he was still his best friend. Even if that meant researching how to fix bullet wounds at 1 o'clock in the morning, after dragging Matt's sorry self back home. For some reason his first aid classes never covered that, normal people tend to take wounds like that to the hospital. So, some of his talents may come from random pages on the internet. He should start a vigilant support group or something, there must be other people stuck trying to patch up their idiotic friends. If only Matt's supersenses had come with some super healing, then he wouldn't be here, working out how to take a bullet out of Matt's leg, after in a moment of consciousness he yelled for someone to please remove it.

He was sobbing, he could feel it grating against the bone, the bone that it luckily hadn't hit, had somehow lost enough momentum, to get lodged in his muscle, jarring, sat there, grinding on his senses. It hurt even more when someone pried it out of his leg, digging around, metal scraping against bone, poking at muscle. He embraced unconsciousness when it came, feeling safe even though he didn't really know where he was, his sightless eyes rolling back into his head, and eyelids closing.

When he woke up again he was in a dumpster behind his apartment, his mask still on, but the wound in his leg sewn up, the bullet removed, and everything wrapped up nicely. He had no idea who had helped him though, he couldn't remember anything, only falling off the ladder, and then here. At least they didn't take his mask off though, there must be some Good Samaritans out there, people that didn't care for his identity, but just for what he stood for, and wanted to help him.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed. May branch off of this in the future, but depends on how this is received, and if I can work out where it would head off to...**


End file.
